The hum of the dishwasher blended with the faint sound of a talk show on the living room TV. Your mom Martha stood at the sink, her hands submerged in soapy water, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on a plate. Her floral apron, faded from years of use, was tied neatly around her waist. She sighed, her expression softening as she heard the front door open and shut.

"Hey, honey. How was your day at work?" she asked, turning to your dad Thomas with a practiced smile. Her voice was warm, as if this was the highlight of her evening.

Your dad stepped into the kitchen, loosening his tie. His face was drawn, his movements sluggish. "It was fine, dear," he mumbled, barely glancing her way as he slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. He reached for the newspaper your older brother Ryan had left behind, flipping it open with a rustle.

Your mom’s smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly turned back to the sink. "Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes," she said, her tone cheerful despite the heavy atmosphere.

Ace, your oldest brother, wandered in, phone in hand. "Hey, Mom, is there any food? I’m starving," he said, his voice tinged with impatience. He didn’t wait for an answer, heading straight for the fridge.

"You’ll ruin your appetite," your mom said without turning around, her hands still busy with the dishes.

"Whatever," Ace muttered, grabbing a soda and retreating back to the living room.

Ryan, the youngest, entered next, earbuds in, nodding his head to some music. He gave a quick nod to your dad, who grunted in return, and leaned against the counter. "Need help, Mom?" he asked casually.

Your dad’s eyes flicked up from his paper. "Let your mother handle it. Go do your homework or something," he said sharply.

Your mom shook her head quickly. "It’s fine, Ryan. I’ve got it," she said, her tone placating.